


Cardiogenesis

by NSQ



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adult Sothis (Fire Emblem), Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NSQ/pseuds/NSQ
Summary: Sothis was once mother to many, and even being dead can't stop her from being mother to one.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth & Sothis
Comments: 15
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

There was an infant in Sothis' throne room. This was, in and of itself, not unusual. Infants died every day. Tiny, silent bundles that appeared, briefly, before passing beyond the threshold into what came after. Sometimes there was enough time for Sothis to reach them, soothe them. Most of the time there was not. Sometimes their own mothers passed with them, and Sothis kept her distance.

This infant, however, had been in her arms for hours, long after his mother had passed. It - he - was quiet in a way that Sothis was sadly familiar with, but he wasn't turning to cold mist and flowing out the door.

"Are you here to keep me company, then?" she whispered, tracing the boy's pudgy face. He stirred, reaching blindly for her finger. Still silent. Still...

Oddly familiar?

There was something strange about this boy. Something she knew. Her fingers slid smoothly from the boy's face to his swaddled chest, and then underneath the cloth.

Her fingers found a scar. A scar and... no heartbeat? Was the boy truly dead already?

As though sparked by Sothis' revelations, the boy began to fade. She- well. She may have panicked a bit.

"Oh, no, no-" she hissed as he grew more insubstantial, muscles tensed between holding on tight and holding on too tight. Her free hand cupped his face, and she drew him close to her face. "Please, no."

But Sothis is - was - the Goddess. There was nobody to listen to her prayers.

She was alone, again.

|||

She'd thought that was the end of it. That the boy had, in the end, followed his mother. And so Sothis was unprepared when, not long thereafter - hours, maybe, though it was difficult to tell - the boy appeared again. Still oddly quiet, still with no heartbeat. She held him again for a few hours, and he again vanished.

Only to come back again.

And again.

And again.

Sothis was... confused. While she had seen some who entered her throne room return to life instead of passing on, none of them made a habit of it. A body could only take so much, and luck could only last so long. That the boy had her own Crest only confused matters. Was it at fault? Sothis worried it might be. The boy had given her a number of things to worry about.

Still.

It was nice to have someone to hold.

|||

Jeralt Eisner wasn't used to feeling helpless. He was the Blade Breaker - half-saint already, the Church's answer to Relics and demons for the past fifty years.

But his wife was dead, and his son-

Some days he had a hard time believing his son wouldn't follow her. He was so quiet. So cold. He never cried, or fussed. And when he slept-

Jeralt had mistaken him for dead, the first time he'd seen his son asleep. Tears had already been half-way down his cheeks before he'd noticed that the pale body was breathing. Barely breathing, yes, but still.

Rhea had acknowledged his worries, but she hadn't explained. And Jeralt was so tired of her not explaining. Of her acting like- like it wasn't his place, to care for his son.

He'd take his son to a doctor. And after that-

He didn't know. But he wouldn't be helpless. Not in this. Not for his son.

|||

It was easier than he expected in some ways, and so much harder in others.

|||

Byleth was a quiet infant who'd grown into a quiet young boy. He'd started to speak late, and still stayed silent without prompting. He picked up instruction quickly, but rarely experimented. Failure frustrated him, but he didn't seem to enjoy success. He slept like the dead.

Jeralt's men called him uncanny, and that was when Jeralt was in earshot. Privately, he worried about his son's passivity. Was it his fault? Was it Rhea's? What would his son do, if Jeralt died? Would he just let himself wither and starve?

Sometimes Jeralt thought about returning to the Church. To its structure and rules and guidance, which might help Byleth even if something were to happen to him. Then he remembered Rhea, pushing him away from his son. Expecting that his loyalty would extend to letting go of his boy.

Jeralt knew too well how incapable the Church was of not asking for more. And he wasn't sure his son would know when to tell them no.

|||

The boy came to Sothis in his sleep, she'd concluded once he'd grown enough that she'd had to assume that he was alive and awake outside her hall. Nobody could keep a truly unresponsive child on the brink of life and death for months and have him grow so normally.

He was a deep sleeper, this boy who carried her heart. But sometimes - only sometimes - he woke up, and looked at her, and she could tell him the lullabies and stories she hadn't had the chance to share in centuries, a lifetime ago in Zanado.

And it was good.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeralt had thought he'd had a handle on his son's oddities by the time Byleth was fourteen. The silences and muted expressions, the obvious talent and the lack of drive, the willingness to spend entire days just fishing.

He'd thought, but then he certainly hadn't seen this coming.

"Uh, care to run that by me again kid?"

"I dreamt of mom," Byleth said, still focused on his breakfast. "It was-" Pause. Head tilt. Settle. "Nice."

That was what Jeralt thought he'd heard, and not expected to hear, when he'd asked his son if he'd had nice dreams.

"Right," he drawled, ignoring how much it felt like he'd been punched in the lungs. Byleth had never expressed any interest in knowing who his mother was, but that didn't mean much. The kid didn't express much of anything. "I could tell you more about her, if you like?"

Byleth didn't say anything. Jeralt had to take that as a yes, and settled deeper into his chair.

"She, uh. She looked a lot like you- you really don't take after me much, that way. Probably a good thing, honestly," he said, sinking deeper into the memories. "She was sick a lot. I'd bring her stuff from the places I'd visit, since she couldn't go herself..." He trailed off.

Byleth was frowning. Barely, but it was there. "But my hair isn't green."

"Huh?" What was the kid thinking of now?

"You said I looked like her," he said, pulling his bangs out in front of his eyes. "But my hair isn't green. Not really." In the right light it had a vaguely green hue, but most of the time it just looked gray.

Jeralt froze. Green hair.

Rhea?

His mouth kept moving without his input, speaking with a nonchalance he absolutely did not feel. "Nah, her hair was like yours. Bit paler, though. Not, uh. Green."

His son was still frowning. "Then who's in my dream?"

Well, shit. "I dunno kid. Maybe you'll find out." Goddess, he hoped not. "Anyway, you want more stories?"

|||

Byleth didn't dream every night. When he was younger he'd tried a few ways to dream more often, but most of them didn't work, or got dad or mom worried about what he was doing, so he stopped.

Well, not mom, apparently. Unless dad got her hair colour wrong. Hm. There was only one way to find out, though. He had to wait.

Byleth was patient, but not quite that patient. So when he did manage to dream, almost a week after that talk with his father, he got the point.

"Dad says you can't be my mom."

The gentle presence sitting next to him on the throne... paused. So did the fingers teasing through his hair.

He nudged his head against her shoulder, and got a faceful of (green) hair for his efforts.

"He said she had gray hair, and she died when I was born."

"...she did, and she did," the woman-who-wasn't-his-mother said. "I'm sorry, if you feel deceived. You were just a baby, when you and your mother came into my halls. She passed on. You stayed." A mild shrug. Things left unsaid. "I couldn't leave you alone."

Byleth didn't say anything.

"Are you... upset?" she asked. Her voice wasn't cheerful, not the way it usually was. She was pulling away.

Byleth didn't like it. "No," he forced himself to say, pushing harder against her shoulder. "No I'm-" Pause. Tilt. Settle. "Confused. If you're not my mom, who- What am I? To you?" Why do you love me?

She must've understood, because the fingers that had been weaving through his hair slid down to cup his face. His eyes met hers, grey to green.

"What are you?" She smiled an off-center smile. "Why, you're the boy that has my heart."

The dead air of the throne room made for excellent dramatic silences.

"Figuratively," she said, and yeah, Byleth had figured. He wasn't stupid. "But also literally."

Another pause.

"I'm confused again," he said.

Sothis giggled. "But are you feeling better?"

He nodded.

"I'll explain, but first- I think it's time for you to-"

"Wake up." Jeralt was pushing his shoulder.

Byleth woke up.

"Nice dreams?" his father asked, already turning away and preparing for the day. Byleth wanted to say yes, but-

He remembered how his dad had acted, that last conversation. Tired in a way that he wasn't used to seeing from his father. He didn't want to put his dad through that again.

And if the woman in his dreams wasn't his mother, it wasn't like his father needed to know.

He said nothing.

|||

Things changed, after that, but not much. Mostly they talked more - Byleth and Jeralt, Byleth and Sothis. Never Sothis and Jeralt, and never to Jeralt, about Sothis.

From his father, Byleth heard stories. About his mother, about his father's past, about all the corners of Fodlan.

From Sothis, Byleth learned other things. Her name, for one. That he hadn't known after fourteen years would've been more embarrassing if Sothis hadn't flushed and admitted she hadn't known his name, either. So they were even on that score.

Sothis was dead, apparently. Long, long dead. So long dead she didn't even know about the Adrestian Empire! Byleth wasn't sure the history books went that far back. His father hadn't been able to tell him anything, at least, and he hadn't even bothered asking how he'd wound up with the heart of someone who'd died centuries before he'd even been born.

She'd had children back then. She wasn't sure where they were now - which was odd, because Byleth would have guessed they were dead. He'd make the mistake of saying so, and Sothis got sad again. Byleth tried to take it back, saying that maybe they weren't dead, and she smiled and said she hoped they were, and that he'd be able to meet them.

She told him stories about them, from back when she was alive. Elatha and Cichol, Omna and Bagna, Seiros and Tethra. Some part of him felt jealous, but it was hard to hold on to that. Sothis hadn't seen, or even heard of any of them in a long, long time. She said she held the most hope for Seiros - the fiercest, most determined of her children - but she didn't really explain why.

He'd learn that later.

But if the stories didn't make Byleth jealous of Sothis's affection, they did make him envious. He'd never really had any peers, let alone siblings. He'd never had cause to doubt that his father or Sothis loved him, but aside from that-

Byleth was lonely.

He'd learn that later, too.

|||

Byleth had been fighting alongside his father for a few years by the time they arrived at Remire. His father's men still called him uncanny, but now their unease was tempered with respect. Respect and fear. They saw him wade through battle, face never betraying anything more than mild frustration, and they called him a demon. As untouchable as the Blade Breaker, and nowhere near as approachable. A legend in the making at just past twenty.

Sothis was bothered by it a lot more than he was. The reputation, the killing, the danger of dying. For Byleth, fighting was just another task. One he did without error or risk.

Right up until Remire.

|||

Sothis was getting better at interpreting the muted signals she received from Byleth through their shared heart. The mild ebbs and flows of frustration, contentment and concern that were her only connection to the living world aside from the boy's own accounts.

What she felt now wasn't minor. It was a whirlpool, a tidal wave. Panic and pain.

So she was already half out of the throne and ready to react when the boy himself appeared at the bottom of the dias, blood already pooling from a vicious wound on his back.

It stained her robes, but what did Sothis care. Her- Byleth was dying.

"Oh, no, you- You idiot, what have you done!" she hissed, cupping his cheek as she had so many times before. Was she crying? She didn't know.

Byleth hissed. "Axe. Nearly hit the-" A sharp breath. "The girl."

Oh, how Sothis would tease him for that in any other circumstance. She wanted to say so. She couldn't. The blood was spreading. His body was probably already- No. No, no, no.

Byleth was saying something. Normally she hung onto his words, knowing how precious and hard to come by they were. But not now. Her mind was elsewhere, feeling out the long neglected chambers of their shared heart, looking for the power that would let her fix this. Most of it was beyond her reach, but she only needed a fraction-

"-Sorry," he finished, grabbing her attention again. She had it.

"Oh you're going to be sorry," Sothis growled, voice rough with tears the same way his voice had been with pain. "But not yet. You don't get to die yet."

And Sothis made their dead heart beat.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm his son."

Jeralt had seen Alois' eyebrows creep up on hearing Byleth's flat introduction, and knew he wouldn't be able to just pack their bags and go. A rumour like that - and it would be a rumour, the way Alois talked - would make its way to Rhea eventually. Safer to cut it off at the root than to let Rhea wonder.

That had been the right decision, he was sure, but standing in front of Rhea made remembering that difficult. He'd forgotten how overwhelming her presence was - even his son seemed affected, focus narrowed on the Archbishop.

"Jeralt," she said, warmly, like they were old friends split by nothing more than unfortunate circumstance. Even if that was his deception, even if he could only hope she believed that, it set him on edge. "It has been too long."

Not long enough. He grunted. Her new advisor, some man named Seteth who Jeralt hadn't met before, frowned, but Rhea took it in stride. They knew each other too well for her to take offense at his lack of eloquence.

"You haven't changed at all. Still saving my charges," Rhea sighed. "While it's poor thanks for your aid, I'm afraid I must ask for further assistance. This incident is only the most recent and serious example of a disturbing trend, and I can think of no better man to protect the students than yourself. The current captain is getting on in years-"

Saying 'no' to Rhea was always difficult, but Jeralt couldn't just capitulate. "I appreciate your faith in me, my lady, but it has been over twenty years. I'm a stranger to most of the Knights, now, and have my own men to think of. Even if I were able, I couldn't just step in."

The harsh backlighting made Rhea's expression vague. By all rights the hall should feel empty with just the four of them. It didn't. "Of course, I have already offered contracts to your men." But not through him. "I'm sure they will appreciate the reprieve from a life of constant movement. And while I think you underestimate how well the Knights of Seiros remember their Blade Breaker, your presence alone would be a boon."

That kind of end-run was exactly Rhea's sort of play, Jeralt thought. It'd be hard to go to his men and tell them they weren't taking that kind of offer after they'd heard it. Still, he'd worked his way up from nothing before. He and Byleth-

"Meanwhile," Rhea continued, turning to his son, heedless of the thoughts racing in Jeralt's head. "It appears the professor supervising our students in the field before the bandits fell upon them has failed to return. While I pray he is safe, his absence has left our faculty short-staffed at a time when the students need more defense than ever."

"Thankfully, a replacement has presented himself. Miss von Hresvelg has attested to your skill and willingness to leap to her defense, and she is most grateful." Jeralt didn't think he was imagining the slight emphasis Rhea had put on that, or the tightening around Seteth's eyes. "With such a foundation, and your family's history of proud service, I do not think it inappropriate to ask if you, Byleth Eisner, would accept a faculty position here at Garreg Mach?"

Rhea's advisor looked like he was going snap and tell her exactly what was inappropriate about trying to recruit a professor with that kind of line. Jeralt wanted to laugh at him. As obviously as Rhea was baiting the hook, his kid just wasn't interested in that kind of thing-

"I will... consider it." A short bow, choppy and unpracticed and unexpected. "Lady Rhea."

The woman beamed, seemingly immune to the sudden consternation of the other men in the room. "That's all I ask. Perhaps you'd like to speak to the other members of faculty, or the other students, before coming to a decision? They are all... exceptional individuals, and not just because of their bloodlines."

And with that last bit of bait, they were dismissed. The heavy doors closed behind them with a quiet firmness, completely sealing off the room they'd just left. The hall was empty. Good. Jeralt turned to his son.

"Kid, do you know what you're getting into?"

Byleth frowned, slightly. Jeralt took that as a no. What an awful time for his kid to discover girls.

"Being a teacher is a lot of responsibility. Appreciating a student's... physical appeal," Goddess, Jeralt wanted to sink into the floor. "Isn't one of them." 

Now he just looked confused. Jeralt sighed. Too circumspect.

"If you think this... Miss Hresvelg is pretty, you wouldn't be able to say so, as her professor."

"That's not it," his son protested.

Now it was Jeralt's turn to frown. "What, you don't think she's pretty?"

"She's... interesting." Jeralt crossed his arms at the artless dodge. "But that's not why." Byleth paused. Considered. Settled on a new tack. "Why didn't you tell me about Seiros?"

"What about Seiros? That I worked as a Knight here?" Jeralt grimaced. "It's complicated. But we don't have to stay here, if you want that story." He'd spill a lot of secrets if it meant them leaving.

The younger man hummed consideringly and Jeralt knew the conversation was going to go nowhere, fast. He rubbed his nose.

"Look, kid, if you want to try and be a professor here, I'll support you." Even if it meant being roped back into the Knights of Seiros. "But I'm serious about Hresvelg, or any other student. Treat them like clients. Now come on, we should go talk to the men before more stuff gets piled on our plates."

Byleth nodded.

|||

Seteth turned to her as soon as the thick doors closed behind Jeralt and his son.

"What," he hissed, "was that?"

If Rhea were feeling honest, she might have offered a sheepish shrug. That had been a bit excessive. But if Rhea had been feeling honest that day, Captain Eisner wouldn't have left her presence under his own power. So she smiled instead.

"I filled a void in our teaching roster, and acquired the services of two capable warriors."

Seteth's eye twitched, and for a moment Rhea could almost imagine these were more innocent times, and she was pulling yet another prank on her too-earnest brother. "You all but said the heir to the Adrestian throne would be open to a... dalliance with her professor, in order to obtain the services of a mercenary?"

She would do quite a bit more and worse than that to regain their mother's heart, Rhea thought. Explaining that, however, was an argument she really didn't need. "The son of Jeralt Eisner is no mere mercenary."

Seteth's fingers ran through his hair like he wanted to pull it out. "Jeralt Eisner has not been your sworn sword for the entirety of his son's existence-" Untrue, though again, Rhea was hardly going to correct him on this. "-there is no guarantee that his son shares what qualities the man possessed over twenty years ago."

Rhea wasn't sure how many qualities the young man - Byleth, she reminded herself, Byleth Eisner - shared with anyone. There was an emptiness to his expressions, a lack of idle motion or interest. Physically, he was pallid, drained of colour, and Rhea suspected if she made the effort to check, she'd find the same silence in his chest that she'd found when he was born.

In any other circumstance, such a mien would elicit compassion, if not immediate confinement to a hospital bed. In this...

Seteth sighed, realizing that Rhea was not going to concede the point, or even entertain the argument much further. "I would like it noted that I was against this from the start."

Rhea arched an elegant brow. "So noted."

|||

Byleth did end up touring the grounds, but his meetings with the students were perfunctory. He was much more interested in the religious portions of Garreg Mach. If the Church of Seiros was named for Sothis' Seiros, there was no better place to look for clues.

It didn't take long for him to find something.

"Seiros, Indech, Macuil, Cichol... Cethleann?" he muttered. The first four names were familiar, but the last was not. 

The five stone figures towered over him, dominating the modest hall. This particular room was near the heart of Garreg Mach, and Byleth suspected it was part of the original, much smaller fortress.

He'd have to ask Sothis if she knew a Cethleann, but at the least it made Byleth's suspicion more like certainty. One name could've been a coincidence, or only distantly related to Sothis' children, but four out of five saints bearing those names strained luck beyond the breaking point.

"Oh!"

Byleth stiffened and twisted on his heel, hand going to his sword. He wasn't alone.

"Oh, no! There is no need for that!" The girl with the green hair said, hands up and filled with nothing more threatening than flowers. "Sorry, I was not expecting anybody else to be here!"

She seemed harmless enough, and probably had more right to be here than him. Byleth relaxed his stance and sketched a short bow. "Sorry. I'll leave."

"No, it is fine, just- unusual? Most services happen in the bigger halls, and not at this time." The girl offered him an awkward smile. "You may stay."

Byleth wasn't sure there was much more for him to find out here, but it might be rude to just walk out. He stepped out of her way, turning to face the statues and bowing his head as if in prayer.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched her lay out her flowers at the base of each of the statues. Her expression seemed... sad? Was that normal? He wasn't sure but this girl, whoever she was, wore her heart on her sleeve.

He waited until she was done with her ritual.

"Are you Rhea's daughter?" The green hair was striking, and not unfamiliar. He'd seen green hair before, but until he'd seen Rhea and her advisor - Seteth? - he'd not seen hair anywhere near as rich and vibrant as Sothis'.

She jumped. Clearly, she'd forgotten he was there. Then his question seemed to register.

"Am I- What? No, my- Seteth is-" She closed her eyes and composed herself. "My brother. Seteth is my brother."

That really hadn't been his question, though Byleth supposed it was informative. "No relation?" he checked.

She flinched again. "N-no! My mother is... gone."

Well now he felt like a cad. "Sorry," he murmured, knowing it was insufficient. He paused. "Is the green hair a Church custom?" If Sothis' children had founded the Church, it'd make sense for members to mimic them. Maybe they dyed it, or children with green hair were encouraged to join.

"What?" She seemed almost shocked. Had he done something wrong?

"Sorry, again," he said. That didn't seem to reassure her. "My name is Byleth Eisner. I've been offered a position as a professor here, but I'm not familiar with the Church of Seiros or the monastery."

"Flayn," she replied automatically. "I am uh- I am here with my brother. Seteth. He is an advisor to Lady Rhea. I would be happy to show you around, Sir Eisner?"

"I'm no sir," Byleth said. Hm. Actually, hadn't his father been lying every time he'd said that? Still, it was true for Byleth. "I'm more interested in the-" Pause. Consider. "History."

Flayn frowned. "Such as?"

Excellent. A source. "Where are the Saints now?"

"E-excuse me?" she stammered, her back foot hitting the base of the Indech statue as she recoiled.

Byleth frowned. That wasn't the sort of question that should bother someone. Maybe she'd misheard him. "The Saints. Seiros, Indech- did they die? Were there others?" He made sure to enunciate clearly.

"N-no! I mean, uh-" The girl seemed quite overwhelmed. "They were just- just humans, correct? How could they be alive, after so many years?"

Byleth nodded. He'd said something similar to Sothis, years ago. "I thought so, but... you say there's no record of them dying?" 

"I- I mean, there is the Tomb-"

Bones tended to look quite similar to one another, in Byleth's experience. Hardly strong evidence. "Just one more question," he said, turning back to examine the odd statue out.

Flayn nodded jerkily in the corner of his eye.

"Who was Cethleann?"

A pause. The prayer hall was quiet except for the sharp staccato of hyperventilation.

Byleth turned away from the statue in question to look at his companion. Her eyes were wide open, and she was gripping her elbows like she was worried they'd fly away.

"Are- you alright?" he asked. He leaned forward to try and get a better sense of what was bothering her. "Flayn, are you alright-"

"Iamfinethankyou," she squeaked, leaning back. She gulped. "I, ah. I think my f- brother, ah. Needs my help. Now."

With that, she sprinted past him and out the door, leaving Byleth to wonder:

Was it something he'd said?

|||

Byleth had been given a week to go over the former professor's notes in preparation for teaching classes. The subject matter was familiar.

The teaching of it was not.

|||

Jeralt had only been back at the monastery for just over three weeks, and already he could feel the old patterns and habits reasserting themselves. He didn't like it. The easier he fit in, the harder it'd be to leave. But it was happening whether or not he liked it. His son had been the one to force him from those patterns. Twice now.

He sighed as he approached his room. Byleth had his own rooms with the faculty, which meant Jeralt was back in a lonely, one-bedroom chamber. It wasn't in the Knights' barracks, at least, though he was sure Rhea would try and get him to move in at some point. The door was a bit sticky. Jeralt braced himself, ready to put his full weight behind forcing the thick wood slab-

Only for it to open from the inside, sending him stumbling into the room.

"Dad," his son said, having smoothly avoided Jeralt's inadvertent tackle. Byleth's face was as neutral as ever, but Jeralt knew his son.

He grumbled and made a show of dusting himself off, just to complete the punchline. "Yeah, yeah, very funny. You stand there long?"

Byleth shrugged. That was a yes, then.

The Blade Breaker rolled his eyes and wrapped Byleth up in a hug. He returned it awkwardly. "Good to see those brats haven't managed to kill you yet kid. Had to dodge a lot of stray arrows?"

"Most of them know what they're doing," his son said flatly. Implying that at least some of them didn't.

Jeralt raised an eyebrow. "Ah, well. Everyone starts off green," he offered. He'd wondered what would trip Byleth up first, taking this teaching gig.

Byleth hummed, but didn't follow the thought. The brats' skills weren't his issue.

The bed creaked as Jeralt sat down on it. Dealing with his son was like pulling teeth sometimes. "Sit down kid, you're gonna ruin an old man's knees standing around like that." Byleth pulled over Jeralt's desk chair and sat. "If it's not their talent that bothers you, what is it?"

Byleth stared through him and at the wall.

"Kid?" Jeralt prodded.

"How did you," Byleth started. Stopped. Started again. "When someone tried to join. Who did you consider? For the company?"

Jeralt frowned. "You mean, how did I evaluate their skills?"

"No." Another pause. "I mean- their fit? How suited they were to- being a mercenary?" His face, normally flat and expressionless, betrayed a level of frustration Jeralt hadn't ever really seen from his son.

"Ah." That was a bit more philosophical than most of his son's questions got, and not the kind of answer Jeralt was used to giving. He hummed and rubbed his chin, trying to think of what to say. "Mostly? I didn't take people who weren't already soldiers, one way or the other. People who didn't really have another option..." Foreigners, people who wouldn't think too hard about Jeralt or the Church of Seiros. Jeralt trailed off, and thought back to who Byleth had, presumably, been thinking about when it came to suitability. He sighed.

Byleth's expression, and his grip on Jeralt's chair, tightened.

"Kid," Jeralt started over, making sure to look his son in the eye. "Byleth. What you're teaching these kids won't decide whether or not they end up having to fight. That's out of your hands." His son was tense as a bow. Jeralt kept talking, low and steady. "But it might decide whether or not they can survive it. Just... focus on what's in front of you."

Silence. Jeralt sighed and heaved himself off the bed, ruffling his son's hair as he walked over to his desk. "Think about it, okay?" he said. "And get some sleep. Don't the houses have a big mock battle coming up?"

More silence.

"I'm sorry," Byleth said.

Jeralt turned around, perplexed. "For what?"

"For getting you stuck here," his son said. "You weren't comfortable, with the Archbishop-"

"Kid," he sighed. "Don't worry about it. I'm your dad. It's my job." And he suspected that Rhea wouldn't have just let them leave, regardless. Sure, she hadn't accused him of anything, but he hadn't lasted this long by ignoring his intuition. "If you're happy here, I'm happy here."

Byleth didn't move. Jeralt wanted to roll his eyes.

"Now, as your father: Go to bed."

|||

It was three days after the Great Tree inter-house battle, and Byleth was exhausted. The number of students involved was enough to make following every happening difficult, but not so much that he could abstract away each individual contribution. And of course, each student had wanted their professor's personalized opinion.

Byleth elected to not think about the looming Battle of the Eagle and Lion in a few moons, which would be even larger. Would it be a good idea to prepare maps to make notes on? Wait, no, he was trying not to think of it-

Someone knocked on his door. Byleth frowned. Was it Seteth? Byleth couldn't think of why, though, and as frustrating and exhausting as the man's warnings could be, he hadn't ever given one for no reason. And he'd never come around this late.

Byleth picked up his sword as he moved over to unlatch the door. Probably unnecessary. Still, so long as he didn't know who it was, he'd keep it in the hand hidden behind the door-

"Edelgard?" he said. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" He put the sword down, quietly.

"Professor," Edelgard nodded, ever proper. Then she offered a sheepish grimace. "I have had some... troubles, sleeping. And I felt that, instead of seeking distraction with my housemates, and risking reprimand, it would be best to tell a member of the faculty." 

And gain some measure of official cover for being somewhere other than a lonely room. It was the sort of considered, practical response that Byleth was used to from Edelgard's contributions in class. Byleth frowned. There was something off. The rationale didn't chain together as flawlessly as she'd presented it, but where was the flaw- ah.

"Is Professor Hanneman unavailable?" he asked. The older professor was far more experienced than Byleth, and more importantly, dealing with students' out-of-class issues was his responsibility as the Black Eagles' homeroom instructor. Not Byleth's.

Edelgard's brow furrowed. "Professor Hanneman..." she said, slowly. "Reminds me of my uncle."

Byleth had no idea what that meant. He could only assume it disqualified Hanneman, given that Edelgard had come to him instead. He invited her to come inside and sit, only to think- did this count an inappropriate behaviour? His father, and Seteth's, warnings echoed.

He took a seat on the far side of the room, just in case.

"Professor?" Edelgard said, before shaking her head and taking her own seat. Neither of them said anything. 

Byleth wondered if he should have offered tea, before remembering he didn't have any on hand. The silence was stretching on. He had to say something.

"Are you-"

"I suppose-"

They both stopped and stared at each other. Byleth waved at her to continue.

Edelgard sighed. "I- hm." Paused. Continued. "The beginning, then. A few years ago, Ferdinand would have had a strong claim to being house leader of the Black Eagles."

That was. Unexpected. Given Dimitri and Claude, Byleth had assumed the position of house leader was always given to the student of highest rank.

He said as much, and Edelgard gave a bitter laugh in response. "That is rather the point, professor," she said, grimacing. "My father's position was, and is, weak. He spends all his time and effort at court merely to prevent it from being eroded further. Ferdinand's father, the Duke von Aegir, as well as a number of other notables, had made the argument that he was no fit Emperor, and had stripped him of much of his authority."

"Is he ill?" Byleth asked. His chair felt uncomfortably hard beneath him. Neither his father nor Sothis had ever given him instruction in politics. He was out of his depth.

Edelgard's grimace deepened. "In a way," she said. "You see, my father - the Emperor Ionius IX of the House of Hresvelg - has no Crest." Her tone suggested this was something nearly scandalous, at least to others.

"...no Crest?" Byleth asked, trying to cover his confusion. What was a Crest? A coat of arms? But surely an Emperor could commission one, not nearly be toppled by its lack.

Thankfully, Edelgard didn't seem to realize the depth of her professor's ignorance. "The founder of House Hresvelg was said to have been a close ally of Saint Seiros. So close that she graced him, and his rule, with her Crest during the War of Heroes. A mark of divine favour," she explained sourly. The recitation sounded rote, like common knowledge, but Byleth paid attention to the new information closely. Edelgard continued. "In that way, each Emperor after him also bore her Crest. Each Emperor, that is, until my father."

"Ah." Byleth didn't understand a single thing.

"Indeed," Edelgard agreed, eyes boring into the stone of Byleth's floor, silver hair falling around her face. "He and my uncle were my grandmother's - the previous Emperor's - only children. Neither had the Crest. Nor did any of the more distant cousins, in noble houses or not. The Hresvelgs, it seemed, had lost the Goddess' favour." Her head cocked to the side, as though considering the matter from a new angle. "Or so the Duke von Aegir and other members of the nobility claimed, when they challenged my father's right to rule."

Byleth frowned. "Ferdinand is not house leader," he said. Obviously, or else the young man wouldn't be so concerned about competing with Edelgard. "What changed?"

Edelgard's smile showed a few too many teeth to be a happy one. "Why, I made my debut at Court, with the Crest of Seiros in my blood. Still, that was not too long ago. Many of my classmates remember when it seemed the Emperor would be Emperor no longer." Her smile, which had dimmed already, vanished. "My father is a good man, and a better ruler than most. I dislike the thought of taking his place." She sighed. "I must, however, so long as a Crest is seen as needed for a crown."

"Is it?" Byleth asked. "Needed for a crown?"

Edelgard looked him the eyes, her expression serious and eyes hard. "It shouldn't be."

The room was silent for a long moment. Then she yawned.

"Thank you, professor," she said, standing up to leave. "For listening."

Was that what one called not knowing enough to say anything? Maybe in high society, Byleth thought. He nodded nevertheless, acknowledging her thanks.

"Good night, professor." The door closed behind her.

Byleth sat on his chair for some time after she left, three thoughts circling in his mind.

The first was that he should ask his father - and then possibly Hanneman - about what Crests were, exactly. Another thing, like the Church of Seiros, that had managed to go completely unmentioned despite its importance.

The second was that Edelgard hadn't actually said what had been keeping her up. Anxiety about her position as house leader, Byleth supposed, but that didn't seem quite right. He probably should have asked. Or would that have been too forward?

The third, he thought as he yawned and moved to finally go to bed himself, was that he hoped this wasn't the start of students habitually coming to him with problems Byleth had no idea how to solve.

|||

"-I had to bribe her. With cake," Byleth frowned. "I don't think I can afford enough cake to keep doing that."

Sothis cackled, delighted. The sound echoed around the vast space of her crypt. "You will have to find some other way to get the little mouse from her den then, won't you?" she said, still chuckling.

The boy enthroned next to her sighed. "It's really not my responsibility..."

Sothis couldn't have disagreed more. "If she's your student, surely it is your responsibility?" Really, Sothis could hardly comment on responsibility. What mattered was that Byleth was connecting with others, finally. Peers, even if he'd been made their professor.

Byleth grimaced. "I'm not suited to- this."

"Oh?" Sothis said. "And what do you mean by 'this'?"

She felt his shrug against her side. "Dealing with. Personal problems."

"I think," was Sothis' arch reply. "That the students are involving you in their problems means they, at the least, believe you are suited to help. If you think your judgment is lacking, why not trust that they see something in you?"

Silence. The boy wasn't sure.

Sothis leaned to the side and kissed his forehead. "You are capable of more than you think." He was kinder than he believed.

More silence, but less stubborn this time - she'd had to learn to read silence with this boy of hers. Sothis' point had been made.

"Your clutch of children aside," she said, ignoring his grimace at her choice of words. "Is there other news from the lands of the living?"

A sigh. "Nothing new," Byleth said. "Professor Hanneman knows what Crests do, but not where they came from, beyond the stories of 'blessings from the Goddess'." He looked at Sothis from the corner of his eye, as though she had anything more to add than she'd had when the topic had last come up.

Sothis shrugged. She'd been a goddess before, but she couldn't recall blessing any humans through their blood. Even with Agartha, the gift had been one of knowledge.

Of course, they'd gone and put that knowledge into weapons, bombs and war-machines- Sothis closed her eyes and banished the memories. They were hardly relevant. Agartha was gone, along with every living thing on the continent at the time, save Sothis and her children.

And now, maybe not even them.

Sothis' eyes refocused. Byleth was looking concerned. Clearly, she'd been woolgathering too long. She offered him a wan smile. It didn't quite reassure him, but he left the matter alone.

"And the Saints..." he sighed again. "There's no record of them since the War of Heroes. Some legends mention Macuil leaving Fodlan, but I don't know where. And no new names." Just four of children. Had they splintered, when Sothis slept and died? Had they passed beyond without her noticing? Either thought was heart-breaking.

Byleth noticed. "There is one thing," he said, quickly. Sothis turned to look at him. Even if she was feeling drained, he deserved her attention. Especially if he was trying to lift her spirits. "Cethleann was Cichol's daughter."

Sothis blinked. "Cichol's... daughter? By whom?" It was a strange thought - Cichol. A father. He'd have taken it so seriously, she was sure. Earnest Cichol. It was difficult to say any of her children were younger than the others, but Cichol had always seemed so. And now he'd had a child of his own, and she'd missed it.

Byleth winced. "It's not said," he answered quietly. Of course. So many things weren't said, apparently. "I'm sorry," he added.

Sothis smiled at him, though her eyes were watery.

|||

"A mission?" Byleth asked. He was back in the Archbishop's court, for lack of a better term. There was no throne or dais, but then, the Archbishop hardly needed such things to magnify her presence or elevate herself.

There were no guards, either. Byleth couldn't help but suspect that was because they too would be unnecessary. It was just Byleth, the Archbishop and Seteth in the empty room of pillars and plinths.

"Yes," Rhea confirmed, voice airy. "Margrave Gautier's eldest son has stolen their house's heirloom. He has pleaded with the Church to support his son in retrieving it."

Gautier, Gautier- "Sylvain?" Not one of the students Byleth had, for one reason or another, gotten involved with, but he knew of the young man.

This time it was Seteth who responded, his expression serious. "The Lance of Ruin-" Byleth's eyebrows crept upwards slightly at the ominous title. "-is one of the Heroes' Relics, and integral to the legitimacy of House Gautier." The man's face twisted slightly, as though he'd eaten something distasteful. "The consequences, should it not be returned to the Margrave, could be dire."

"Why the Church?" Byleth asked. Surely, if it was so important to the Margrave, the lord could call upon his own allies in Faerghus.

Seteth sighed. "The situation is the Kingdom is... unstable, and has been since the Tragedy of Duscur." Now that was a piece of politics even Byleth wasn't ignorant of - the death of a king and his most trusted retainers had mattered to a mercenary company, and that had been before Byleth had been made professor to some of those most personally connected. Seteth continued. "The crown prince is young, and will not have the Blaiddyd Relic until he reaches his majority. The same is true for the other students - Felix, Annette and Ingrid. All of their Relics are in the care of their guardians, and delivering them here would be impractical."  
  
Byleth considered asking what a Relic was. Seteth would give a comprehensive answer, yes. He would also be as frustrated and curt as he'd been when explaining many other things he'd felt Byleth should know, either as a professor or just in general.

Byleth kept silent. Seteth's brow furrowed, and his hand came up to cup his chin in thought. "The crown prince's uncle is incapable, as are Baron Dominic and Count Galatea," he said. That was a bit of a strange grouping - what he'd heard of Dimitri's uncle was completely unlike what Annette had to say of hers, or Ingrid of her father. "Duke Fraldarius is occupied with unrest elsewhere, as the man has taken up many duties under the current regency." He shrugged, slightly. "And, of course, House Gautier is the house which has lost theirs."

"Thankfully," Rhea interjected. "The Goddess provides - the Knights of Seiros are up to the task of retrieving the Lance of Ruin, and the Church is willing to lend their aid."

Byleth still wasn't sure what was preventing the Margrave from handling this himself. "And Sylvain?" he asked instead, boots shifting uncomfortably on the smooth stone floor.

"Lord Gautier has requested that his son be present to retrieve and return the Relic," Seteth said sourly. "Whether this is because he does not trust the Church, or some other reason, we do not know."

"We would ask that you accompany him, as well as some other students, along with the Knights for this mission," Rhea said, her tone losing some of its airiness and becoming something a bit more familiar to Byleth. "Heroes' Relics are powerful, and dangerous. In a better world-" her eyes narrowed, slightly. "-they would not be used at all. Garreg Mach was founded on the principles of peace, and cooperation between the nations of Fodlan. A Relic in the hands of a bandit..." she trailed off. The Archbishop's expression had grown distant. She paused to gather herself and closed her eyes. When they opened again her expression was slightly sad, and deadly serious. "It is a warning. A glimpse of the alternative. War. Chaos, and death."

Byleth understood the value of a good warning and, of course, he knew his students wouldn't be students forever. Eventually, they would be lords and ladies, kings and emperors. They would be able to choose war, as little as he wanted to imagine it.

Still, something in him rebelled at the thought of deliberately bringing his students to see death, no matter if it helped them avoid it in the future. 

Seteth stepped in, ever the practical one. Byleth put the thought aside for later. "Your priority, of course, will be the students' safety." Of course. "Overall command will be given to one of the knights, and the escort should be more than sufficient to insulate you and your charges from serious risk." Seteth paused and gave Byleth a frown. Did the man have any other expression? "It will still be a battlefield. Do not be careless."

That would have been insulting, if Byleth hadn't already been distracted by the thoughts of how, exactly, to best protect his students. He couldn't argue his way out of this - he wasn't eloquent, and Lord Gautier wasn't even here to reconsider ordering one son to see another fall. He couldn't argue with Rhea that this ounce of prevention wasn't worth a pound of cure.

"Which students?" he asked instead.

|||

Eight Blue Lions, as this was a Faerghus matter, and three each from the Golden Deer and the Black Eagles. The six from the other houses amused Byleth as much as their presence made his task more difficult. He doubted Seteth had meant to mirror the students so precisely, but he had. The house leaders, their self-declared, self-consciously noble rivals, and the laziest student the house had to offer. Matched sets.

Byleth's smile faded as he considered that he didn't know what Seteth's actual reason was for picking those students, assuming the man wasn't as amused by the parallels in their personalities as Byleth was. Actually, there were a lot of things he didn't know, and probably should. It was time to fix that, he thought. He pulled his horse alongside another, and the rider looked at him curiously.

The Knight of Seiros who was in command of the mission wasn't someone familiar to Byleth, but he knew her type. Sir Catherine was tall, blonde and tanned, and wore her armour like it was part of her. Boistrous, expressive, proud of her strength; there was always one or two like that in his father's company. They weren't usually the ones personally devoted to Jeralt, as Catherine was devoted to Rhea, but Byleth had met Leonie. So he was comfortable enough to ask her a few questions about this mission. Starting with the core objective.

"What?" she said, shocked, after he'd voiced his ignorance. "You don't know what a Hero's Relic is? Were you raised under a rock?"

Byleth shrugged. "It never came up."

Catherine whistled and leaned back in her saddle. "No offense kid, but it's not exactly the sort of thing that 'never comes up'."

"Well then," he said, "I should probably learn." He frowned. "You shouldn't call me 'kid' around the students."

"Right, right," she said. The knight took a moment to collect her thoughts. "Okay, so, the relics are- ugh. You'd have better luck from a priest, but anyway."

He stared at her, waiting.

"Way back when, during the War of Heroes, Seiros and the other Saints were fighting the Mad King, right?" She didn't wait for him to nod before continuing. "He'd been given the first Crest and Relic by the Goddess to protect Fodlan, but eventually the power drove him crazy. Turned him into a monster. That's when the Goddess blessed the Saints to fight him, and with their own Crests, they were able to found what would be the Adrestian Empire."

Edelgard hadn't mentioned anything about Relics, though admittedly, Byleth hadn't known to ask.

Catherine was getting more into the oratory. "But they weren't able to take out the Mad King, because his Relic was too strong, and while their weapons were sacred, they weren't the same. So then the Goddess made ten more Relics, and gave them to ten more warriors. They were weaker than the old King's, because the Goddess had learned her lesson, but together they and the Saints were able to finally put him down for good. And when the heroes - and the Saints, I guess - had kids, those kids had crests and could use the Relics, if they had them, and so on until today."

Byleth leaned out of the way of a branch. So a Heroes' Relic meant a weapon. One that could only be used by people with certain Crests. And some Crests didn't have Relics. "What does that mean for us, though?" he asked, focusing on the immediate concern.

She pouted. "I was getting to that, sheesh. The point of all that is that Relics are powerful. Like, really, really powerful. Even for someone without the right Crest, or any Crest at all, they can make you way stronger than any normal person on the battlefield. Someone with the right Crest, on the other hand? Almost impossible to take down without another Relic, or a lot of casualties. Your little students?"

She gestured expansively to the mass of Knights stretched out ahead of them. In the centre of the group, bright primary colours standing out from the pale greens and silvers, were Byleth's charges.

"How do you think their families got their titles? Leicester and Faerghus don't have the kind of wealth the Empire has - but they do have more Relics. And their biggest, most important lords are the ones who have them. So it's a big fucking deal when someone loses one, and that's not even getting into them being marks of the Goddess' favour."

Byleth frowned. "Can we retrieve the weapon, if it's that powerful?"

"Aw kid, did I make you worry?" Catherine laughed. Byleth decided that asking her not to call him 'kid' again would be a waste of time. "Nah, we should have enough, 'specially since the Gautier kid can't really use the thing. The Knights of Seiros are trained for this, and-" She patted the sword at her hip. "A Relic with a Crest beats a Relic without."

Her sword was a Hero's Relic? It did look unusual, Byleth thought, now that he was really paying attention. Many strange prongs. It wasn't steel. If anything it looked more like...

Bone?

She must've noticed him looking, because she chuckled. "Didn't know that either, huh? That's a bit less surprising. Most people never get the chance to see one in action. But hey, today's your lucky day!"

|||

Byleth did, in fact, get to see the Heroes' Relics in battle. He wasn't sure if he'd consider himself lucky for it.

Catherine's sword had glowed with a deep, unsettling red light when she drew it to face the prodigal son of Gautier. Miklan's spear had been so, so much worse. The brief flicker of red light had only been the start. He'd... twisted, like the weapon - or, specifically, the strange stone within it - was pulling on his flesh, stretching his skin without tearing, wrapping itself in layer after layer of Miklan Anschutz Gautier.

If Byleth ever had nightmares, he suspected that twisting, impossible moment, when Miklan's screams cut out and the forest was filled with the sound of snapping tendons and ballooning hide, would feature prominently. That Catherine had silenced the growing horror with a single strike, her vicious, ominous blade moving faster than Byleth had thought possible, and nobody had been seriously injured was almost beside the point. It haunted them all, and the students took it hardest.

Byleth told them he was proud of them, that bravery was acting in spite of fear, and all the other things his father said after a particularly hard battle. It felt wrong, being in his place. It didn't feel like enough. Dimitri and Ingrid hadn't left Sylvain's side. The young man was now the only child of House Gautier, heir to the lance that had left his brother a ruin of swollen flesh and bone. Its strange, flexible spurs poked over his shoulder. It'd have to be enough.

"Sir Catherine was quite impressive, wasn't she?"

Byleth didn't flinch. But he was surprised. When had Edelgard pulled up alongside him? He must have been more shaken than he thought.

"The Empire has far fewer Relics than Faerghus," she continued, eyes fixed forward. Byleth was bringing up the rear again. Catherine, meanwhile, was at the group's head this time. If he squinted he could barely see her blonde hair, shining in the afternoon sun. "And stories can only tell you so much. Seeing it in person is... well. Informative, to say the least."

Byleth nodded. That had been Rhea's rationale, though he doubted the Archbishop had known just how badly things would go. He could only hope she'd been right, that this was a warning, a useful, chilling lesson, and not a meaningless horror.

Edelgard hummed. "I can't help but feel sorry for Miklan Gautier. Being cast aside. Whatever his men had seen in him... wasted, then misused, for lack of a Crest."

Byleth said nothing. The sympathy was unsurprising, given what Byleth knew of her father's position, and what Ionius' Crestlessness had cost them both. Should he ask if there was some Relic the Hresvelgs wielded? He assumed not, but he didn't know.

Ionius' daughter frowned. "And then what came after! It's hard to fathom, seeing that, that Relics are considered... holy, desirable things."

Desirable? Catherine had been a whirlwind, a crimson blur of crackling red light and blood. A boon to their own morale, and a terror to the enemy. Byleth knew how much that mattered on the battlefield. She'd kept his students safe. "Holy would not be the word I'd use, no," he said, finally. 

That drew forth a small smile, and Edelgard finally turned her eyes away from the horizon. "Why professor! Was that a joke?"

Was it? Byleth shrugged.

"Ah well," she sighed. "We shall work on it. More seriously, then. How can we - the nobility of Fodlan - live with ourselves, giving such things to our children, knowing they might turn into monsters?"

Byleth looked at her curiously. "You know, you're not the first to ask me that sort of question."

"Oh?" Edelgard seemed surprised.

Byleth gave a vague nod. Sothis had not been shy about her opinion of his father taking him into the business of war. Of Byleth going along with it. Though he could hardly tell Edelgard he spoke to a dead goddess.

"I teach you how to fight," he said instead, slowly. Trying to put to words the thoughts he'd been having since his first classes, the ones that seemed all the more important now, after that glimpse into what it would mean if the nations went to war. That brief flash of red light. "To kill, or die. How do I-" How had she put it? "-live with myself, doing that?"

Edelgard's face went through some contortions Byleth couldn't decipher. "That's- not a sentiment I would have expected from you, professor."

"Sorry?" he offered.

"Don't be," she said immediately. "It's a lovely thought." A sad smile. "But you can't expect to step in front of every axe, professor. Sometimes a... collision is inevitable." The smile turned sharp. "And I'd rather be the one to survive it."

Byleth had heard that before too, though from Jeralt, not Sothis. He didn't say anything.

It was a long ride back to Garreg Mach.

|||

"...The Archbishop said it was a punishment for hubris," Byleth frowned. "I don't know what that means." He was pacing the dais of Sothis' crypt. Memories of the mission were still uncomfortable even a week later.

Silence.

Byleth looked up from the monolithic steps of the dais. Sothis looked... tense, in a way that was unlike her. "Sothis?" he asked. "You... alright?"

"Did the- stone. You said there was a stone in the Lance," she said, leaning forward on the throne. "Did it have a... pattern on it? Any sort of symbol?"

He paused. Had he seen any sort of symbol on the stone? "Maybe," he answered, trying to remember. "It wasn't smooth." That much he remembered. He wished he'd seen it more clearly, now, even if he'd avoided looking too closely at the Relic then. "Is it important?" he asked.

"It," Sothis grimaced. "It might be," she said, the intent focus draining out of her with the lack of solid answers. She slumped slightly on her throne.

"I can try and find out," Byleth promised. "There's a holiday soon - the Goddess' Rite of Rebirth?"

The Goddess in question looked up at him. Then down at herself. "I don't feel like I'm being reborn," she remarked lightly, some of her humour returning. "Are you planning on attending?"

Byleth shrugged, glad to be out of whatever conversational reef the Lance had brought. "If I have time."

"So cruel you are, to be absent the moment when I return to flesh!" Sothis mock-scolded, expression imperious. "Such a faithless child shall be barred from the lands of milk and honey, where only the most devout reside!"

That was better, Byleth thought, as Sothis' divine diatribe dissolved into helpless giggles.

|||

The Rite of Rebirth was, in Byleth's opinion, utter madness. Not for any matter of faith - his advantage in knowing whether the goddess would be reborn was distinctly unfair, after all. No, it was madness for a much simpler reason.

The crowds! Never in his life had Byleth seen so many people! The pilgrims must've numbered in the thousands, and every prayer hall in the Monastery had services from dawn until dusk. All of Fodlan, it seemed, wished to visit the Holy Tomb at the one time it opened all year. The dormitories, offices and dining hall were the only places still reserved for staff and students, and even there the noise of the festival was ever-present and, at least to Byleth, overwhelming. He felt for his father, who was providing security. Byleth couldn't even manage a perfunctory visit to the tomb. Not shoulder to shoulder with a hundred strangers.

Instead he kept to his office. He knew a few of the students were doing the same, either similarly overwhelmed or simply disinterested in what the Festival had to offer. Or, in the case of Flayn, barred from participating by a protective familiar member, and ready to complain about the unfairness of it to the nearest person available.

Byleth supposed it was better than spending the entire holiday re-marking papers, even if she seemed to sometimes trip over her own tongue and beat a hasty retreat. Given how their first meeting had gone, Byleth could only assume that was simply Flayn's way, and it left him with many hagiographies and fish jokes to share with Sothis later.

Still he was glad when, nearly a week later, Garreg Mach was once again quiet. The sort of quiet that came after too long spent being loud, over-sensitive and fatigued and with entirely too many things to clean up, but quiet nonetheless. So Byleth flinched when, a weekend out from classes resuming, there was a sharp knock on his door.

"Dad?"

"Hey kid," Jeralt said. "How about we go down to the pier?"

Byleth hadn't seen his father all week. He nodded. The walk down to the Monastery's fishing spot was nearly uncanny in its silence after a week of noise, but neither of them felt any need to talk. The pond was flat and calm in the early evening dark. The duo helped themselves to the fishing rods on offer and sat, not bothering to bait their lines. It was Jeralt who spoke first.

"Haven't been around much the past while," he said. "Sorry about that."

Byleth wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. It wasn't his fault that the Church of Seiros needed security.

Jeralt sighed. "This place," he said. "Never thought I'd come back to this place. Lots of memories."

"You never mentioned it," Byleth remarked. Not reproachful, but... curious.

"Yeah," his father admitted. "Yeah, well. As I said. Lots of memories."

The moon hung fat and heavy over Garreg Mach's high walls.

"Your mother loved this place."

Byleth didn't flinch. His mother was spoken of rarely between the two of them. He'd never been curious enough to push his father on the subject, not when the topic made the man seem so drained. Perhaps it was strange, for a son to care so little for the woman who'd birthed him. Perhaps it was only natural that Jeralt felt so much more strongly, when he'd loved her and Byleth had never known her.

"You look just like her," Jeralt continued. "I know I've said it before, but it's. Easier to see, I guess. Here."

Byleth wasn't sure what to make of that. "You met her with the Knights?"

"Yeah. Not the point, though," Jeralt rolled his shoulders. "Point is- you love this place too, don't you?"

The pier was quiet.

His father sighed. "Listen to me, getting all sappy." Byleth's line jerked. "You caught something?"

Byleth shook his head.

"Aw, don't tell me this old man's been embarrassing you."

This time Byleth nearly dropped the pole.

Jeralt's face grew craggy with concern. "Hey kid, you okay?"

Byleth worked his jaw. "I don't- something's wrong." Like something was pushing him between the shoulder blades. Reaching through his back and into his chest.

And it was pulling him somewhere.

His father's bulk loomed over him. "You need a doctor?"

"No," Byleth said. "We need to go." The fishing poles were abandoned on the pier.

"Go where?"

Byleth didn't know.

|||

The doors to the Holy Tomb were huge, metal, and absolutely immovable. Jeralt just had to convince his son of that.

"Look kid, there's no way something's going on in there," he explained. "Because nobody could be in there. Look at these doors."

Byleth kept staring at the portal like it owed him money. "Is there another way in?"

Jeralt snorted. "Yeah, sure. If you dug through the entire mountain."

"Then why," his son shook his head. Frustrated, visibly so. Jeralt wondered if he shouldn't have dragged the kid to a doctor, his own opinion be damned. "How does the door open for the Rite?" Byleth asked.

"The Archbishop breaks the seal with her magic. Some sort of... blood lock..." Jeralt trailed off. Rhea could open the doors. Rhea, who'd worked so quickly to keep Byleth in Garreg Mach, whose intentions were still a mystery to Jeralt.

Byleth's hand was over his chest, Jeralt thought. It was a frightening thought. "You're sure about this?" he asked his son.

A sharp look, and then a nod.

Jeralt closed his eyes. "Fine." Hopefully this wouldn't end with both of them dead. He turned to face the door.

Blood. Rhea's blood. Jeralt's blood? Maybe. There was a panel on the door, marked with the Crest of Seiros. It was perfectly clean, of course - Rhea wouldn't be careless like that. He'd have to hope.

Jeralt drew his dagger. Byleth drew his sword.

"Calm down kid, we don't need that quite yet," he muttered, drawing a short cut across his arm. Just enough to get some blood, and smear it on the flat panel on the door.

Nothing for a long moment. And then, slowly, whatever force held the massive slabs together reversed itself, and the Holy Tomb was open again.

It was very different after the end of the Festival of Rebirth. No torchlight to offset the faint green illumination from above. Only a few wreaths of flowers and offerings left to soften the monoliths of the massive sarcophagi, the giant throne and the titanic pillars. And no people to fill the empty space and help one pretend that this was a place meant for humans at all.

Well, almost no people. Jeralt's jaw clenched. There were three figures by the sarcophagus placed directly before the throne. None of them were the Archbishop. He supposed that was reassuring, in a way. At least they weren't going to be executed for heresy.

"Go get the Knights," he muttered. Byleth shook his head. Great.

Jeralt drew his sword. The intruders had noticed their entrance. Given how large the doors were, they'd have to be blind not to have.

"Halt! You trespass on sacred ground!" he shouted, the old words as familiar as the sword in his hand. He'd rather have a lance, he thought, as he and Byleth descended the many, many steps as fast as they were able.

The vast chamber swallowed any echoes, acoustics meant to amplify only those speaking from the dais. How Rhea gave sermons from here, he'd never know. The intruders must have heard him though, because the largest of the three, a man in menacing all-black armour, stepped forward. Behind him, the other two turned to each other.

"We must run," a voice, carried to Jeralt by the design of the Tomb, said. Probably the one in monk's robes, still standing by the sarcophagus.

"And the sword?" the other voice replied. Its tone was flat, distorted. Some sort of magic? Jeralt didn't know. This figure was in dark armour similar to the first, though accented with what appeared to be red feathers.

"Not what we'd hoped for," the first voice replied. "We must go."

For a moment there was frustrated silence. "Without the Crest Stone, I cannot carry it at any speed," the feathered figure said, before turning to their silent companion. "Death Knight! Cover our retreat. Retrieve the sword, if you can."

And then Jeralt had to stop paying attention, because the silent intruder - the Death Knight - was upon them.

The man was strong. Exceptionally so, Jeralt thought, as he blocked a sweeping swing from the war-scythe, careful not to let the weapon reach past his block to strike him anyway. Byleth tried to circle around, and had to retreat as the weapon turned on him for a moment, before returning in time to block Jeralt's own strike. A strange weapon, but it gave the Death Knight the advantage of range over their swords, and the man was skilled enough to make use of it. He was also armoured in a way neither of his opponents were.

"Get the other two!" Jeralt shouted, stepping between the scythe and his son as the man tried to draw Byleth back into the fight, then stepping closer in, past the hooked blade, and now the Death Knight's attention was wholly on him. Byleth, left unthreatened, ran past them both, up towards the throne. Leaving Jeralt alone, unarmoured and with only a sword and dagger in hand, against a knight in full plate.

"You're not getting out of here alive," the Blade Breaker said, sword darting for a gap in his opponent's armour, dagger very nearly reaching the man's dominant hand, forcing the Death Knight back.

Then Jeralt ducked as the war-scythe blade tried to take his head off from behind. Smart, but now the man's grip on his weapon had weakened. He charged low, sword deflecting a desperate thrust, before it was discarded as he, and the Death Knight, fell to the floor.

Wrestling with knives, Jeralt considered as the man's armour banged against the stone, was a dangerous activity when your opponent had so many fewer places to be stabbed than you. You had to get it over with quick.

The man raised his arm too high, and Jeralt's dagger found its mark. Blood splattered the ancient floor of the Holy Tomb. The two combatants froze.

It wasn't enough blood. Jeralt had no idea why - he'd killed enough men with thrusts exactly like that to know a good hit when he felt it. But the Death Knight lived.

Jeralt pulled back, other arm keeping the Death Knight helpless, the man growling in whatever strange way men about to die growled. This time he'd end it.

Then there was a sound like a crackling flame and a cut-short scream, and Jeralt's attention was no longer on the Death Knight.

Byleth. His head snapped up to identify what was happening with his son, and that was all it took for the Death Knight to escape his grip. A steel boot sent Jeralt stumbling back with a wheeze, but Jeralt only had eyes for what he saw, looking up at the throne and the sarcophagus that stood before it. The sarcophagus of Saint Seiros, cracked open. Byleth, clothes dark, face hidden from the men fighting below him.

And in his hands, a sword of fire.

The sound of steel on stone brought Jeralt's mind back to the immediate problem. The Death Knight had reclaimed his scythe. Jeralt readied himself, but the man's focus was where Jeralt's had been. Staring up at that glowing blade.

"How... unexpected," he hissed to himself, before finally turning to Jeralt. "We will. Meet again," promised the Death Knight.

And then he vanished. No mage nearby to cast a warp spell, no prepared ritual circle. Nothing. Just gone. Jeralt would've thought that impossible. But then, it seemed to be a night for the impossible.

"Kid," he called, putting the mystery aside for now. "You okay?"

Byleth turned, the glow from the sword casting strange shadows across his face. It was dimming, slowly, the red light fading to reveal the papery yellow, bone-like texture of all Heroes' Relics. Which this sword obviously was, yet couldn't possibly be.

His son nodded. Jeralt sighed.

"Good," he ran his fingers through his now wild hair. "Crap. This'll be something to explain to Rhea."

"I would, indeed, like an explanation," echoed a voice from behind him, in defiance of all acoustics. Oh no. Jeralt turned slowly to face the wide open doors of the Holy Tomb, still marked by his blood. Standing there was the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, sword in hand and fury in her eyes.

"Now."


End file.
